The Hollow Watch

In the autumn of 2016, I was living in a small hamlet called Bramblewick, nestled in the rolling hills of the Yorkshire Dales. It was the kind of place where everybody knew everybody, and the only event was the annual harvest fair. My family had moved there from the city, seeking a quieter life, and we occupied a sprawling, old stone cottage at the edge of the woods. It had thick walls, low ceilings, and a damp mustiness that clung to the air.

Our cottage had two large bedrooms, a kitchen, a parlor, and a scullery, with an outhouse and a washhouse in the backyard. The main bedroom, where my parents and I slept, was furnished with a heavy Victorian double bed and a narrow single bed, which was occupied by my younger sister, Clara. I often had trouble sleeping, a habit my mother jokingly called ‘The Midnight Lament.’ That particular night, the summer heat was oppressive, and the air was still.

I woke to a thirst that clawed at my throat. The water pitcher sat on a small table behind my bed, just out of reach. I stretched, my hand fumbling in the dark, but I found nothing. I sat up, letting my eyes adjust. Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting pale, silver shapes on the floor. As I looked toward the table, I saw them—two tiny, glinting points of light, hovering in the blackness beneath the table’s shadow. They were not the reflection of a button or a shard of glass; they were eyes, watching me with an unnerving stillness.

My breath caught. I blinked, expecting them to vanish, but they remained, unwavering. A cold dread seeped into my bones. I wanted to scream, but my voice was locked in my throat. I shook my father’s shoulder, whispering, ‘Dad, there’s something in the room.’ He stirred, groggy, and glanced in the direction I pointed. He saw nothing, of course, and grumbled that I was having a nightmare. He turned over, and I was left alone with those eyes. They did not blink.

Minutes passed like hours. The eyes began to move, slow and deliberate, sliding along the floor as if attached to a low-crawling creature. They vanished behind the wardrobe, and for a moment I thought it was over. But then I heard a scratch, a soft, rhythmic scraping on the other side of the wooden panel, as if something was sharpening its claws. I pulled the blanket over my head, my heart pounding, and I recited a prayer I hadn’t said in years.

When morning came, the sunlight poured into the room, and I felt a foolish sense of relief. I told my mother about the eyes, and she laughed, attributing it to a mouse or a trick of the light. But the next night, I saw them again, closer. They were at the foot of my bed this time, just above the bedframe. The shape was becoming clearer—a dark, hunched form with a mottled, leathery skin, like an old, shriveled apple. It had a mouth that stretched from ear to ear, filled with needle-thin teeth, but it did not move. It just watched.

I tried to stay awake, hoping to catch it in the act, but exhaustion eventually claimed me. The following evening, I decided to set a trap. I sprinkled a thin layer of flour across the floor, and I placed a knife under my pillow. That night, the eyes appeared at my bedside, so close I could hear a soft, wet breathing. I forced myself to remain still, my hand gripping the knife. Then, it spoke—a voice like a dry rattle, ‘Why do you watch?’ I gasped, and it recoiled, as if startled, then melted into the shadows.

The next day, I found the flour disturbed, but the imprints were not of feet or paws. They were the impressions of long, gnarled fingers, as if it had crawled on all fours. I followed the trail, which led to a crack in the wall behind the armoire. The crack was new, and it seemed to lead deep into the stonework. I pressed my ear to it and heard, from within, a faint, rhythmic sound, like a heartbeat from the house itself.

I began to investigate. The cottage was old, and the walls were thick. In the attic, I found a dusty journal belonging to a previous owner. It described, in frantic handwriting, a ‘presence’ that came at night, a malevolent watcher that fed on fear. The writer, a woman named Edith, claimed she had tried to fight it off, but it grew stronger each night. The last entry was a single, chilling phrase: ‘It has learned my name.’

I realized, with a sinking feeling, that my family was not safe. The creature, whatever it was, seemed to be drawn to me, the one who was awake in the dark. I decided to confront it. Armed with a lantern and a crowbar, I pried open the crack in the wall. Behind it was a narrow, crumbling passage. I crawled, my heart thumping, until I reached a small chamber, almost like a tomb. In the center, there was a small, wooden box, bound with iron. I opened it, and inside were the remains of a bird, but its eyes were still intact, gleaming with an unnatural light.

As I stared, the eyes turned to look at me, and the bird began to twitch. I slammed the lid shut and ran, but the damage was done. That night, the creature spoke my name. ‘Maren,’ it hissed, from the darkness. I woke to see it perched on the headboard, its head tilted, its eyes burning with a hungry intelligence. I screamed, and my family woke. They saw it too, a horrible, unsettling figure, and we fled the cottage in the dead of night.

We never returned. The cottage was sold, but the memory lingered. I now live in a city, where the lights are bright and the night is never truly dark. But sometimes, when I lie awake, I catch a glint in the corner of my eye—two tiny points of light, watching, waiting. It has learned my name, and it knows where I sleep.